


yours truly

by masi



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mentions of other characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4219839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masi/pseuds/masi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After receiving other people’s mail in his mailbox one too many times, Hawke decides to have a few words with the mail carrier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	yours truly

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note on the setting: This fic is set in a more modern-day version of Kirkwall, but the races of the characters haven't been changed from what they are in the game.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

It is Friday evening, and Hawke is more than ready for the weekend. He has had a long week of endless conference calls with the most annoying people of Thedas. Also, he has had to mediate three separate fights, all started by Anders. Furthermore, just an hour ago, he was on the receiving end of a highly graphic and unsettling proposition. He can’t wait to go home and hopefully not be disturbed until Monday.

He leaves his office on Viscount’s Keep Street and heads straight for his new house in Hightown Square. He carefully avoids the usual pit stops, and he tries not to make eye contact with anyone. He only stops walking when he reaches the mailbox in his front yard.

Humming to himself, he pulls out the mail. He is already envisioning himself on the comfy couch in his living room, his feet up on the coffee table, beer cans lined up all around him, Dog drooling gently onto his shoulder. He is going to set his phone on its very convenient Do Not Disturb mode and stare at the TV until he falls asleep. A great start to the weekend.

As he walks up to the front door, he begins to flip through the pile of mail. He really should check his mail everyday, but he already has enough trouble managing his inbox. He has considered getting a secretary, but it would feel odd asking someone to do the things he is so used to taking care of himself, a little pretentious even. Aveline has already said that his home décor is “uppity.”

Thankfully, he seems to have received mostly junk mail and no bills. There is also a letter announcing that he has been selected to receive a small fortune. All he has to do to collect the money is send his bank account number. These letters are all going straight to the recycle bin.

He glances at the last envelope. It is bright red, and, he realizes, suddenly, and with a growing sense of dread, sealed with a red kiss sticker.

"Great," he says.

Three years ago, when he first moved to Kirkwall from Lothering, this letter would have made him happy. It would have been a nice change from what he was used to receiving: sneers, or insults about his refugee status, or the cold shoulder. But now many people in Hightown have taken an interest in him, and he’s been attracting the kind of attention he doesn’t quite want.

They always seem nice in the beginning, the few men and women he’s slept with, and then they show their true colors; namely, shady politics, elitism, a need to make him into a loyal guard dog. The end of each relationship has been a relief.

So, he isn’t currently looking for love. After years of hard work, he’s finally where he wants to be, and he is going to enjoy it, continue to do his best at work, be the best son, brother, and friend he can be. Which is why this letter is not what he needs right now.

Hawke sighs as he walks inside. He pats Dog on the head and tosses all of the letters except the red one into the recycle bin. Then, he opens the envelope carefully, trying not to rip the sticker.

There is a short letter inside, written in pink ink. It says, at the top, “Dear Agata.”

“Oh no,” Hawke mutters, grabbing the envelope.

He flips it over to look at the front side. The envelope is addressed to a Ms. Agata, who lives near Anders’s clinic.

The mail carrier must have mistakenly placed this letter in his mailbox. Maybe the person is new or was having a difficult day. Hawke carefully folds the letter back up and puts it back into the envelope. He will deliver it to the address himself. He needs to take Dog out for a walk anyway. He will have his me-time later. No harm done. He deserves this for jumping to conclusions. He hopes Ms. Agata doesn’t get too angry with him.

***

On Monday, Hawke receives another mistaken letter, this time an electricity bill. The recipient’s house is near the Docks.

His right foot is still aching from earlier, when Merrill accidentally dragged a chair over it during a meeting, so he isn’t too happy about having to deliver the letter himself. But he does not want the recipient to have to deal with her power getting shut off because she did not receive her bill and pay it on time.

After delivering the letter, he polishes his mailbox, taking extra care on the house number.

***

On Tuesday, he receives divorce papers in the mail, addressed to someone in Lowtown.

He considers filing a complaint with Bran at the post office. Bran should know that things are not running as smoothly in Kirkwall as he likes to pretend they are. But then again, he will probably just toss the complaint into the trash without reading it. He dislikes anything that interrupts his daily routines.

Hawke decides that he will give the mail carrier one more chance before he takes matters into his own hands. He puts on a pair of sneakers and heads over to Lowtown.

When he returns to his house a few hours later, he finds Varric, Isabela, and Anders seated around his kitchen table and helping themselves to his beer and snacks.

“Nothing like cheap beer to keep the weekday blues at bay,” Isabela says, popping open another bottle. “Cheers, Hawke.”

“I thought every day was a weekend-day to you,” Hawke says.

She squints at him. “What crawled up your ass? Or, is it because nothing has?”

“Do you always have to be so vulgar, Isabela,” Anders says. He gestures to the empty seat next to him. “Sit down, Hawke. Look, we saved you dinner.”

The “dinner” he has saved is a quarter portion of a frozen lasagna Hawke bought during his last trip to the grocery store. There is a chunk of ice floating on top of the cheese.

“Yes, thank you, Anders,” Hawke says.

“So, where were you, Hawke?” Varric asks, smiling. “Were you having a romantic rendezvous with that programmer who kept asking me for info about you? Did he want to unzip your fly, er, files?”

“Yes, do tell,” Isabela says. “And also tell me how you’re getting people to look at your crotch at all when they can be thinking about mine instead. The most shocking thing happened to me the other day, you know?” She sighs and shakes her head. “There I was at the Hanged Man last night, playing cards with Kitten and turning up my charm for this cute elf with the most beautiful green eyes. Then he buys us drinks. Success! Right? Wrong. He starts asking us about Hawke! Can you believe it?”

“I’ve seen him there too,” Varric says. “Broody owes me money, but I’m going easy on him because he read _The Dasher’s Men_ and had some nice things to say about it. Not many readers get my more subtle metaphors.”

“I’ll never understand why you people are so content with wasting your time at that bar when there’s real work to be done,” Anders says. “I’m swamped at the clinic.”

“Lighten up, Blondie,” Varric says.

“Have another beer.” Isabela slides another can over the table.

“You see, Hawke,” Anders says. “You don’t want to get mixed up with whoever these two are talking about. Probably another drunk. They think drinking will solve everything.” He takes a swig of beer.

The three of them are gearing up for an argument that will undoubtedly turn nasty, so Hawke quickly calls Dog in from the backyard to slobber over everyone and diffuse the situation.

***

Wednesday and Thursday are good days both at work and in regards to the mail situation, but on Friday, Hawke receives a gigantic, heavy box that fills up his entire mailbox. He stares at it in dismay, and then he has to sit down for a moment when he realizes that it is addressed to someone on the Wounded Coast. He does not have a bike. He will have to walk all the way there with this box if he wants to deliver it himself.

Hawke thinks about all of his options before he decides that a diplomatic approach would be best as an initial step in dealing with this mail fiasco. He writes on a sticky note:

 _Hi, this package isn’t for me, please check the address and redeliver. Thanks!_  
_~Hawke_

He sticks the note onto the box, closes the lid of his mailbox, and hopes for the best.

***

On Saturday, he returns from the grocery store to he find his mail sitting on the lawn, next to the mailbox, while the gigantic box still sits inside.

“This has gone too far,” he tells Dog, who barks in agreement.

***

Hawke calls in sick on Monday. He isn’t quite sure when the mail carrier comes to his house, and he wants to be able to catch the person in the act. He makes himself a large pot of tea in the morning, sits down near the windows that overlook the front yard, opens up one of the books Varric has been telling him to read for months ( _Hard in Hightown_ ), and waits.

It is late afternoon, and he is about to reach the climax, when he sees an elf carrying a large bag that says "Kirkwall Post" up to his house.

Hawke jumps up immediately and heads for the door. As soon as he steps outside, he calls out, “Wait one moment, please!”

The mail carrier is in the process of leaving the mail on the grass, again. Hawke takes a deep breath, reaches into his reserves of patience, and walks over to the mail carrier.

He is getting ready to say something polite to begin their discussion about the mail situation, perhaps, “How are you?” when he finds that he can’t say anything at all because he is too busy staring.

This mail carrier is a work of art, Hawke realizes. The more he sees, the more he wants to see and understand. There seems to be a hidden depth to this mysterious being, a story behind the glowing markings on the smooth skin, an enigmatic quality to the green eyes, something poetic in the sweep of that soft, fluffy white hair-

“Hasn’t your mother ever told you it’s rude to stare,” Mr. Mysterious says in one of the most apathetic tones Hawke has ever had the pleasure of hearing.

“Sorry,” Hawke replies. He can feel himself blushing.

Then he wonders why he is the one apologizing. This mail carrier has simply left a pile of mail on the grass and is now walking back towards the street without even opening the mailbox. Surely this is not acceptable behavior. He isn’t wearing the correct uniform either. While he does have on a standard white polo shirt with the Kirkwall Post logo, he is wearing very tight black pants, possibly leggings, instead of baggy red uniform pants. He clearly does not care too much about following the rules.

Hawke says, “I’ve been meaning to speak to you. Do you have a moment?”

“No.” Mr. Mysterious gestures to his mailbag, which looks mostly empty in Hawke’s opinion. “Some of us have to work for a living. We don’t have time to stand around and make small talk.”

Hawke isn’t sure he likes the tone this guy is using, like it is a big burden to just do his job. He was wrong earlier: this guy isn’t a work of art at all. Hidden depths? More like yet another sullen person dissatisfied with everything.

But, Hawke reminds himself, maybe he is jumping to conclusions. Maybe Mr. Mysterious is usually in a good mood. Maybe he is irritated today because of the ogling earlier.

Hawke says in his friendliest tone, “This won’t take long. I want to ask you about my current mail situation.” He pulls the gigantic box out of the mailbox and takes the sticky note off. “I keep receiving other people’s mail. Look, this is addressed to someone on the Wounded Coast. Can you take it back?”

“Or,” Mr. Mysterious frowns at him, “you could notify the post office. Why haven’t you?”

“You mean, file a complaint about you?”

“Why not?”

Hawke smiles. “I prefer to work things out on my own whenever possible.”

Mr. Mysterious stares at him for a moment, the scowl easing from his face. Hawke, encouraged by this reaction, holds out a hand and says, “I’m Garret Hawke.”

After a bit of hesitation, Mr. Mysterious glances at Hawke’s hand and then touches it briefly. “Fenris,” he says.

“Nice to meet you, Fenris. I’m sorry we had to meet this way. Will you take the box back?”

Fenris takes the box and drops it into his bag.

“Thanks,” Hawke says.

“What did you do with the letters?” Fenris asks.

“I delivered them.”

“By yourself? You don’t have servants to do that kind of thing for you?”

“Well, the more politically correct term nowadays is hired help. Anyway, my mother insists on sending me help sometimes, but as I said before, I do try to do my own work as much as possible.”

“Good for you,” Fenris says, but not in a sarcastic tone.

Hawke wonders if Fenris was purposely leaving him the wrong mail to test him somehow. Maybe, like Aveline, Fenris thinks that Hawke is putting on airs, and he wanted to see if Hawke considers himself too important to step inside the shady neighborhoods of Darktown and Lowtown and the almost anarchic Wounded Coast.

But Hawke thinks it odd that Fenris should care either way. He really ought to question Fenris further. Be more suspicious, be annoyed perhaps, and not be wondering, instead, what Fenris thinks of him now, and hoping that it’s only good thoughts.

He should not be making himself comfortable here either, leaning an arm against the mailbox and asking, “Are you new to this route?”

“You’re an inquisitive sort, aren’t you.” Fenris frowns at him. “Tell me about yourself first.”

“There’s nothing much to say. I’m usually at work at this time of day. I’m a child welfare worker.”

“Must be difficult,” Fenris remarks.

“It’s not easy.”

“Necessary, though, sometimes.” Fenris adjusts the cuffs of his shirt. “But you have to be careful. Always put the kids first, not anyone else.”

Hawke is surprised and pleased at this comment, cliché though it is. People who are not social workers tend to avoid talking about child services as much as possible. It makes them uncomfortable.

He says, “I try to.”

Fenris nods. He glances at the curb.

Hawke asks quickly, “What about you? Do you live around here?”

“Yes, I moved here recently.”

Before Hawke can ask any more questions, Fenris says, “I have to go. I have more deliveries.” He gestures to the bag, and then he veers, rather abruptly, towards the sidewalk.

“It was nice to meet you,” Hawke says.

“You’ve said that already,” Fenris replies, but he nods a goodbye, and also says, before turning to face the road again, “Later, Hawke.”

Hawke waits next to his mailbox until Fenris has walked out of Hightown Square, then he returns to the house.

***

Two weeks after meeting Fenris, and after closing a rather painful case with Aveline’s help, Hawke decides to leave work early. The day is nice and warm, a hint of spring in the air, so he sits outside with Dog, eats a tub of potato salad, and waits for the mail to arrive.

As Hawke had expected, Fenris does not mix up the mail anymore. He is surprised, however, at how disappointed he is about this. He has actually considered going to the post office and asking around, but he doesn’t want Bran to overhear and make fun of him in a terribly efficient manner.

Hawke has sat outside for about half an hour, and is starting to doze off, when he spots Fenris rounding the corner.

“You’re home early,” Fenris remarks, as he stuffs a few letters into Hawke’s mailbox.

“Happy to see me?” Hawke asks, while pulling back on Dog’s leash so that the dog won’t jump on Fenris. He doubts that Fenris will use pepper stray, but he doesn’t want to take any chances.

“Not really. It’s nice to see him outside though.” Fenris nods at Dog. “He’s usually at the window. Here, I have something for him.”

Fenris pulls a box of dog treats out of his bag. He tosses a few biscuits into the air, and Dog jumps to catch them in his mouth.

“That’s very kind of you,” Hawke says. “Say thank you, Dog.”

Dog licks Fenris’s right hand.

“His name is Dog?” Fenris asks, his mouth twitching a little, like he wants to smile.

“Yes?”

“It must have taken you a long time to come up with that name.”

“The twins, that is, my siblings, aren’t too pleased either, but Dog likes this name.”

Hawke is pleased to see that Fenris is listening to him with a kind of rapt attention. He soon finds himself talking more about himself than he usually does. About Mother, who is thinking of remarrying and is trying to find someone for him too; about Bethany, the best little sister anyone could ask for; about Carver, his resentful brother.

Fenris waits until Hawke has finished speaking before he says that he has to go back to his deliveries.

“You’re still on this route, right?” Hawke asks, moving closer to the mailbox as Fenris closes it. “No plans to change anytime soon?”

“Yes, I’m still on this route,” Fenris says. “I’ll let you know when I get a job that doesn’t make me feel like I’m paying them to be allowed to work. Later, Hawke.”

***

Hawke can’t leave work early every day, and he can’t take his lunch break at the time Fenris delivers the mail, 3:00 PM, because is too late to be considered an appropriate lunch hour. But Saturday, now Saturday is the perfect day.

He makes a pitcher of lemonade on Saturday, and then he sits outside with Dog again, waiting for Fenris.

Fenris arrives. He looks a bit uncomfortable when he sees the lemonade.

“That was unnecessary,” he says, as he stuffs junk mail into the box.

“Not at all,” Hawke says. “We can drink this out here, but you’re also most welcome to come inside.”

“That would get me fired.”

“How about you finish your deliveries first and then come visit me?”

“Persistent, aren’t you?” Fenris replies.

“Only when it matters.”

Fenris flushes a little at this, and then scowling, he averts his eyes. Hawke waits.

After shutting the lid of the mailbox with more force than necessary, Fenris says, “I’m not a fan of lemonade. Do you have anything stronger?”

“Yes, of course.”

Fenris agrees to come back later.

As soon as he has left, Hawke hurries back into the house and tidies it up as much as he can, even the bedroom because one can hope. Then he gets out a few bottles of vintage wine from Grandfather Aristide’s prized collection. Carver is going to be furious and complain to Mother, but Hawke needs this. He wants to make a good impression.

Fenris returns half an hour later. He has swapped his uniform shirt for a plain black T-shirt. His shoulders are tense, and he is slouching slightly as he steps into the house.

“This used to be my grandfather’s house,” Hawke says.

“An aristocrat, I suppose,” Fenris says.

“There’s a gift from him in the kitchen.” Hawke gestures towards the wine he has placed on the table. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you,” Fenris says, sitting down immediately. “This is very generous.”

Hawke is a little alarmed when Fenris finishes off an entire bottle in about a minute, but he has more pressing matters to think about, like the fact that he is getting hard just by looking at the outline of Fenris’s jaw, at the lovely throat, at the way the tattoos seem to shift as Fenris swallows.

Hawke clears his throat, says, “How about I order dinner?”

“This is fine,” Fenris replies, opening another bottle.

Hawke resolves to have dinner prepared beforehand the next time he invites Fenris over. For now, he sits back and watches as Fenris makes his way through the wine. It’s nice to have him here. Fenris, with his elbows against the kitchen table, his slender fingers curled around the corkscrew, his voice so close, low and intimate as he sketches out a vague story about his past that leaves Hawke with more questions than answers.

***

On Fenris’s fifth visit, Hawke asks, tentatively, “Would you like to go to a barbecue with me tomorrow?”

Fenris lowers the book he was reading to stare at him. Hawke regrets disturbing him. But then again, all Fenris has been doing during these visits is curling up on this leather armchair in the library and reading and/or drinking. Hawke wants to talk to Fenris, and do other things too, like touch him gently, and kiss his pretty mouth, and fuck him against the wall.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” Fenris asks.

“Do you want it to be a date?”

“Aren’t we already on one?”

“I’m not quite sure.” Hawke smiles. “I’ve been replying to work emails all afternoon, and you’ve been reading that book. What’s it about anyway?”

“You haven’t read it?” Fenris puts a bookmark into the book and then looks at the cover. “It’s about two guys who keep circling around each other as they try to solve a very obvious mystery. The protagonist is an awkward, bumbling man, who burns desperately for the antagonist, who is as cold as ice.”

“Really? You’ll have to tell me what happens in the end. Or,” Hawke leans closer to Fenris, “you can act it out for me. I’ll be the bumbling protagonist.”

Fenris says, “You’re really something else.”

Then, quite suddenly, he smiles.

Hawke looks at that half-smile, at Fenris’s eyes, bright with the smile, and he feels a little winded, like he has just finished climbing up a hill. His cheeks and ears are burning. He resolves to put that expression on Fenris’s face more often in the future. It’s a good look for him.

And then Hawke’s heart nearly stops beating, when Fenris moves out of the chair and presses him back against the bookshelf closest to them, grabs a fistful of his shirt.

When Hawke has recovered from the shock, he puts his hand behind Fenris’s head, guides him closer, kisses him on the mouth.

Fenris is tense at first, his jaw stiff against Hawke’s thumb, but when Hawke starts to stroke his hair, Fenris relaxes into the kiss. He opens his mouth, letting Hawke slide his tongue inside. He puts his arms around Hawke’s shoulders. He rubs himself against Hawke’s thigh.

Hawke takes him up to the bedroom, and they have sex, fast and sloppy and fantastic, and Hawke can’t remember the last time he felt this content.

***

Fenris gets up in the middle of the night, gets dressed, and says that he’s going home. “It’s not about you,” he says, as he walks to the front door. “I just need to clear my head.”

“That’s okay,” Hawke says. “Another time then. Will you come to the barbecue?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Fenris slides his feet into his sandals.

“My friends don’t bite, I promise. They’re kind of like you and me, trying to make the best of not-so great circumstances.”

Fenris brushes off a piece of lint from his black pants. “I know your friends,” he says.

“Really? How?”

“I met them at the Hanged Man. Varric and Isabela, right?”

Hawke remembers, now, Isabela’s story about the stranger at the bar and Varric chiming in on the conversation. “So, you’re Broody!” Hawke says, laughing. “This really is a small world.”

“Broody?” Fenris repeats.

“Varric likes to give nicknames to people he likes. But why were you asking them about me?”

“I was about to tell you before you interrupted me.” Fenris folds his arms.

“Fine, fine.”

After scowling some more, Fenris says, in a much louder tone than usual, “I need your help regarding an urgent matter. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You’re good at helping people. That’s what I’ve been hearing since I moved here from Tevinter. That's why, when I realized your house was part of my mail route, I thought I’d get to know you better, to see what you were really made of. I need your help to track down a man named Danarius.”

Hawke open his mouth to respond, but he finds that he can’t speak. His throat has gone uncomfortably dry. He feels like someone has punched him in the gut. Actually, a punch tends to hurt less.

Finally, he says, “Oh.”

“I was going to tell you sooner,” Fenris says. “But now you know.”

“So.” Hawke takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly. “So, all of this,” he gestures to the space between them, “this was just so that you could ask me for my help?”

Fenris steps forward, looking a little agitated. “It’s not like that.”

“You could have just come to my office and asked me,” Hawke says.

“Yes, that might have worked.” Fenris reaches out, maybe to touch Hawke’s face, but then he drops his arm. After looking at Hawke for a long moment, he turns back to the door.

Hawke watches as Fenris walks down the pathway, past the mailbox, and out of his sight.

***

“Aveline says that you’ve been very busy lately,” Varric remarks, as he walks into Hawke’s office on Friday. “Either you’re holed up in here until ten at night, or you’re getting into vicious arguments with druggies. Don’t you usually favor the subtler approach when dealing with those kinds of parents? Something I should know about?”

Hawke doesn’t really want to talk or think about Fenris right now, but Varric is looking at him with expectant, almost concerned eyes, so Hawke says, “I met a guy, but it’s not going too well.”

“When does it ever? Who’s the guy?”

“Fenris.”

“Broody? Well, well. So he found you.”

“Yes, he did.”

Varric walks over to the coffeemaker and pours himself a cup. “You don’t sound too happy,” he says. “What’s he done? Is he too grim and sarcastic? Too much of a Negative Nancy?”

“No. He hasn’t been very upfront with me, that’s all. Turns out that he’s interested in me because he needs my help, nothing else.”

“He probably wants you to help him track down that shady guy who fucked him over,” Varric says. “A word of advice. Don’t ask Broody too many questions about his past unless you want a fist to the face. But, then again, he might consider putting that fist elsewhere, in which case, go full steam ahead.”

“Yes, thank you for the advice, Varric.”

“C’mon, Hawke, where’s your fighting spirit?” Varric pours out another cup of coffee and places it on Hawke’s desk. “Love isn’t easy, you know. It takes me about forty-nine thousand words before I can get two characters to tell each other how much they fucking adore each other. Things like love can be hard when you have a lot of personal shit going on. Give him another chance. Remember the three Fs. Forgive, forget, fuck.”

Hawke attempts a smile, and Varric beams.

***

Fenris delivers the mail very early on Saturday, right at noon. Hawke does not realize that Fenris has come into the yard until Dog starts to bark. By the time Hawke reaches the front door, however, Fenris has already left.

Hawke is still a little annoyed that Fenris had ulterior motives for showing an interest in him, but he misses Fenris and wishes that they hadn’t argued. He should have been kinder during that exchange. Fenris is not the only one at fault here. After all, Fenris wasn’t the one who had started flirting first, and he didn’t invite himself into the house either.

He wants to talk to Fenris again and work things out. Every relationship has its own type of starting point, good or bad; just because theirs was a bit strange doesn’t mean it can’t become something meaningful. Fenris has been much nicer to him, and much less demanding, than the other people he has had tried to have relationships with in the past.

Hawke looks at the mailbox. He wasn’t looking for love, but it seems to have found him anyway.

He goes into his library, in search of his sticky notes. He selects a red one and writes on it, in his neatest handwriting:

_Fenris,_

_I am sorry that I wasn’t more understanding when we last spoke. I would like to see you again and talk things over. Please let me know how I can get in contact with you._

_Also, I am most willing to help you find the man you’re looking for. Just tell me what to do._

_Yours truly,_

_Hawke_

***

When Hawke checks his mail on Monday, he finds only a book of coupons in the box. The sticky note is gone. This could be a good sign or a bad one. There is nothing to do but wait.

 

***

Friday rolls around, and Fenris still hasn’t contacted him.

On his way to the house, Hawke sticks his hand into the mailbox, trying not to get his hopes up. He walks into the house with the mail, thinking about what he should do for the rest of the evening. Netflix and beer have lost much of their appeal.

“Is he working this route anymore?” Hawke asks Dog.

Dog barks and licks Hawke’s right hand.

Hawke sits down at the kitchen table and says, “Maybe I should leave him a longer letter?”

But he is not sure what else he can write. He needs advice from someone who is both a romantic at heart and good at writing letters. None of his friends fit that description.

Hawke sighs and starts sifting through the pile of mail. He almost knocks over the pitcher of water near his elbow when he sees the envelope at the bottom of the pile.

This envelope, containing what seems like a single sheet of paper, is addressed to “Fenris.” The street address, written in small, spindly handwriting, is Hightown Estates.

It takes Hawke five minutes to find the house. After he approaches the doorstep, he looks around, feeling a bit uneasy. There is an odd smell of mold and decay emanating from inside. He is not sure how anyone can live here.

He steels himself and then knocks on the door.

No one answers. He knocks two more times.

Finally, Fenris opens the door. He looks exactly like he did when he first stepped inside Hawke’s house, the same uncertainty. Hawke wants to reach out and hug him, never let him go.

“Hello, Hawke,” Fenris says. “You have a letter for me?” He holds out a hand.

Instead of giving him the letter, Hawke takes his hand. “I’ve missed you,” he says.

Fenris steps back, pulling him into the house. “I’ve missed you too,” he replies. He releases his grip on Hawke, and then he puts a hand on Hawke’s cheek. “Thank you for coming tonight.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Hawke says.

Fenris still looks hesitant. Hawke turns slightly, kisses Fenris’s palm, his wrist.

“I was glad to see your name in my mailbox,” Hawke continues. “What’s in the letter?”

“Nothing.” Fenris opens the envelope and takes out a blank sheet of paper. “You wanted me to contact you, so I did, using a tried-and-true method.” He smiles, finally.

“Ah, okay.” Hawke smiles back. “But can we maybe start calling each other on the phone from now on?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

“Or you could come to my house in the evenings, and we can talk.” He looks around at the dismal mansion. There are cobwebs and shards of glass everywhere. “Is this really your house?” he asks.

“It’s Danarius’s house, but I’m living in it for the time being.” Fenris shrugs. “It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

Fenris smiles again and says, “Would you like to go out for dinner first? Then I’ll answer all of your questions, I promise.”

“I would like nothing better,” Hawke says.

“You can pick the place.”

They step out of the house. As they start walking towards the Hightown Market together, Hawke glances at Fenris from time to time. Fenris seems more at peace than Hawke has ever seen him. He brushes his arm against Hawke occasionally, he pauses by one of the estates to tell him a story about a cat that he had to rescue from the roof while he was delivering the mail.

“What have you been up to?” Fenris asks afterwards. “Besides writing letters on sticky notes and looking longingly at your mailbox, of course.”

“Very funny,” Hawke says. “It took me a long time to write that letter, you know. I expect you to reply in kind. It’ll be a nice change from all the other mail you’ve been leaving in my box.”

“That can be arranged,” Fenris replies.

Hawke leans over to kiss him again, and then they continue along their way.


End file.
